


Home for the Holidays

by amuk



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Exes to Lovers, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Getting Back Together, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: Geralt wasn’t ‘longing’ for Yennefer, no matter what Jaskier said or how Ciri looked at him. And it still wasn’t true if a very drunk Yennefer bumped into him in a hotel bar, her hands scalding him with every touch. He was stone. He was ice.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Home for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Geralt/Yennefer & Ciri family fluff
> 
> For caiabresebun, for the witcher secret santa. Ok. Um. I was going for family fluff, and my sister was watching a lot of Hallmark movies, and thus this monstrous thing came to be with a bit less family fluff than I was planning. I’M SORRY.

There was something relaxing about the gym. Standing in the center of the boxing ring, his gloves strapped tightly to his fists, Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The whole place had a musty, stagnant smell, the kind of scent that came from being a third-rate gym with third-rate equipment. Places like this were a dime a dozen in the city, entrances tucked away in alleys and after a flight of stairs.

It was a miracle, honestly, that the place hadn’t closed down yet. It was a pretty small place, barely able to fit in a dozen or two at a time. There was a better Goodlife center around the corner, with proper instructors and amenities. If he was being charitable, he knew he wasn’t the best trainer—he could be hard where others were soft, firm where others bent.

If it weren’t for the cheap rates, they’d have been in the red years ago. As it was, Geralt didn’t want to question their finances too much. After all, it was only the goodwill of the owner that let him rent the apartment right above the gym. In a city as expensive as New York, he doubted he’d anywhere else as affordable. Especially considering his…uneven employment.

“Geralt!” A girl called out as she pulled open the door, a bell ringing a few seconds after to belatedly announce her arrival. “I’m home!”

And even if he could find a place to stay, he doubted he’d find one big enough to fit him and his adopted daughter. Geralt opened his eyes, looking over his shoulder as Ciri walked in the room. At thirteen, she was gangly and awkward, all long limbs and flyaway hair. He had maybe a year or two before she grew into her body, and then just mere months before her mind finally caught up and he’d have to deal with whatever teenage tantrums she tossed his way.

“Good,” Geralt grunted, watching as she plopped her backpack on one of the benches. “You’re late.”

“Not really!” Ciri protested, pointing at the clock. “It’s only 4:15.”

“And you normally come back at 4.” Geralt glared at the door, waiting for her irritating babysitter to walk in. When the door remained stubbornly closed, he barked, “Jaskier.”

“Yeah! Sorry about that.” Jaskier poked his head in through the door and smiled sheepishly. As usual, his brown hair looked like a mouse’s nest, he reeked of cheap perfume, and his clothes looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be punk or rock. Which, to be fair, was exactly how his band sounded like—a confused mishmash of two different sounds.

For some reason, the ladies loved it.

Geralt sometimes feared for the future. “What happened?” he asked, already knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Nothing, nothing!” Jaskier waved the question away with a goofy smile, chuckling in the way he did when he was hiding something. “Just got some ice-cream—”

“It’s December,” Geralt pointed out flatly.

“—and took the long way home.” Jaskier winked at Ciri. “Just a little mutual complaining, right?”

Ciri stared at him for a long minute, then turned to Geralt. “Who’s Yennefer?”

Geralt stiffened. He hadn’t heard that name in years. He hadn’t expected to hear that name ever again. Immediately, he glared at Jaskier. “You.”

Jaskier wilted. “You weren’t supposed to ask!” he hissed.

Ciri snorted, already sounding like a teenager. Sarcasm dripped from her voice as she asked, “Oh, I should just let him stay grumpy forever?”

“Grumpy?” Geralt clenched his jaw. Part of him wanted to know just what Jaskier said. Another, bigger part of him knew it was his usual brand of nonsense, a mixture of lies, rumours, and a tiny drop of truth. Whatever it was, it was better not to know. Actually, that was almost always the solution when it came to Jaskier.

“I didn’t say you were grumpy,” Jaskier refuted quickly, scratching his cheek. “More like—”

“Heartbroken?” Ciri guessed, a sly glint in her eyes and maybe Geralt should start preparing himself now for her teenage years.

“Yes—no!” Jaskier’s jaw dropped. “Ciri, are you trying to get me killed?”

“I’m not heartbroken,” Geralt stated, moving past Jaskier’s betrayal for now.

“He said it’s why you’re grumpy all the time,” Ciri challenged, ignoring Jaskier’s yelps and cries as she revealed their entire conversation. “You miss her.”

“I don’t miss her.” Geralt smiled wryly at the thought. How could he miss someone who was never there? “It was years ago, Ciri.”

“It’s been years since my…” Ciri trailed off, her skin paling.

She didn’t have to finish; he knew what she was about to say. Crossing the boxing ring, he leaned against the ropes and smiled gently at her. He was never certain of what exactly possessed her grandmother to leave her in his care—knowing the woman, she probably hadn’t wanted to either—but he was glad she did.

He couldn’t say just how much his life had changed now that Ciri was in it, only that it was for the better. “That’s a different thing,” he replied softly. “Your grandparents loved you very much.”

She smiled back hesitantly. It had taken her a while to get comfortable enough to talk about her grandparents. They had been practically her parents, raising her since birth. “Yeah.” For a moment, he thought that was the end of that, but she pressed, “And Yennefer?”

Geralt sighed, running a hand through his hair. Now that it was out, he might as well get it over with. “It was a short thing, just before you came. She wasn’t interested in anything more.”

Ciri frowned. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirmed, shrugging. What else could he tell a child? The connection he’d felt with Yennefer had all been in his head; she’d made it clear enough when she left.

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed as she picked up her backpack. “I’ll finish my homework.”

He knew she really meant she wanted to process it all, and he waved her off. “Sure.”

“And I’ll make my way out—” Jaskier added casually, slinking his way to the door.

“Jaskier. Ring. Now,” Geralt ordered, his teeth bared as he glared at him.

-x-

Yennefer was never certain of what exactly possessed her to join her current company. Well, no, she knew exactly why—her ‘mother’ Trisha worked for their rivals and that was more than a good enough reason to join. Perhaps that was petty, but then again, Yennefer never claimed to be otherwise.

Pettiness was sometimes the only way you dealt with a woman like Trisha. It was almost impossible to get under her skin. Even all of her years in law school, backstabbing and clawing to the top of her class hadn’t taught Yennefer the right way to twist the knife in her mother’s heart.

For now, she’d have to make do as the corporate lawyer for a rival business, filing lawsuit after lawsuit and fighting her mother in court.

“Hey, Yennefer!” Her fellow lawyer, Triss, smiled brightly at her, waving as she entered the hotel lobby. “You’re here early.”

“Or you’re here late,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. This was precisely what she hated about her workplace. Tech companies as a whole reeked of that sugary ‘we’re all in this together’ attitude, no doubt fostered by their shareholders to trick employees into working free overtime. And the fools ate it up, staying in their offices well past closing because of paltry things like buffet bars and gaming rooms.

The near-sighted idiots had no idea how much they were being used. It was bad enough the peons were cheerful morons; she didn’t need her fellow lawyers buying into it too.

Either feigning ignorance or in need of some hearing aids, Triss breezed past her comment like it hadn’t happened. “I didn’t take you for the holiday type.”

“I’m not,” Yennefer replied flatly. “What gave it away, my black outfit or my black makeup?”

“Well, that’s true. It’s not very Christmas-y. Or Holiday-y.” She smiled brightly, as though that had been an actual question and not a sarcastic quip. Now Yennefer was certain Triss was faking it. “Or—actually, what do you celebrate?”

“Nothing.” Yennefer glanced at the champagne in her hands. The second she’d entered the hotel’s ballroom for her company’s ‘Holiday’ party (and oh, they like to say it was ‘Holiday’, even though all of the decorations were so obviously ‘Christmas’. And yet, just like everything else, the fools just ate it all up.), Yennefer had grabbed a glass from a passing waiter. And then another.

She actually wasn’t certain how many she’d drank so far, but clearly it wasn’t enough if she was still conscious for this conversation.

“Seems like you celebrate Halloween,” Trisha replied smartly, the closest she’d come to baring her claws so far.

“And you are a suck up,” Yennefer retorted, already tired of the conversation. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.” Triss’s smile dropped a notch. Around them, various employees drifted about as they chatted, everyone from the top CEOs to the lower management mingling. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Make some small talk.”

“We see each other every day.” Yennefer glanced around for another waiter. Her drink was almost empty, and she needed another.

“And you don’t talk about yourself then.” Triss sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t know why I thought it’d be different now.”

“Me neither.” With a careless wave, Yennefer pivoted and headed to another waiter. Triss sputtered something unintelligible and she hoped it was a curse. It’d make her far more interesting and out of all of the lawyers in her company, she was by far the most attractive.

A little fire would actually make it interesting to have a fling with her.

Plucking two glasses from the waiter, Yennefer looked over the rim as she drank, taking in the other employees. It was a small miracle Isetradd had left the company before their holiday party; despite everything that had happened between them, he’d probably make a pass. Depending on how drunk she got, she’d probably say yes. If there was one useful thing about the time of the year, it was that it made it all the easier for her to find some mindless entertainment, to slip in and out of beds without anyone caring.

_Caring_.

For a moment, she thought of a certain silver-haired man and she bit her lip. It had been years. More than that, it had been another petty attack on her mother—sleeping with Tissaia’s temporary bodyguard, was a scandal in the making. Even if only to Tissaia’s eyes.

She hadn’t expected him to get attached.

She hadn’t expected herself to be tempted.

Shaking herself out her thoughts, Yennefer gulped her remaining champagne and headed to the open bar. It had been years; she didn’t understand why he lingered in her thoughts, but this sentimental feeling was a hindrance.

“Whisky,” she ordered, slipping onto one of the bar stools. “On the rocks.”

Yennefer was not nearly drunk enough to deal with this tonight.

-x-

Geralt could not for the life of him explain exactly how he’d ended up walking through downtown New York with Jaskier in the evening. It was mid-December. It was really cold. It was a weekday.

“Why am I here?” he asked aloud, glaring at his shorter companion.

Jaskier grinned, patting him on the back. “Look, I brought up some painful memories, right? Well, what better way to fix that than by helping you make some new, better ones?”

“That’s a stupid reason.” Geralt turned around. Ciri was definitely not doing her homework right now, probably ordering takeout, and most likely needed his watchful eye.

“Wait, wait, wait, it’s not!” Jaskier quickly jumped in front of him, pressing his hands on his chest in an extremely futile attempt to get him to stop. They both knew exactly how much Geralt outclassed him in strength, just like they both knew the only reason Geralt had stopped was because he wanted to. “It’s a really good reason.”

“How?” Geralt knew he’d regret asking this, just like he regretted asking Jaskier anything, really. Somehow, the guy had a silver tongue and a penchant for getting what he wanted, and either Geralt lost time listening to him or ended up agreeing to something he definitely _didn’t_ want.

Jaskier’s smile grew wider as he gently turned Geralt around and continued to steer him down the street. “Look, you’re still hung up on her—don’t lie to me. I told you she was bad news, you didn’t listen, and this is where it got you. Even Ciri’s worried. You don’t want her to worry, right? You want to show her you’re fine, right?”

“…is she really that worried?” Geralt muttered, unable to refute it. He wasn’t ‘hung up’ on Yennefer, but he couldn’t deny that he still felt bound to her somehow.

Jaskier perked up and nodded quickly. “I mean, she wants you to be happy, and you’re kinda mopey and grumpy,” Geralt glared and he hastily amended, “not that it’s a bad thing, we love that part of your, but…you know…it’d be good to know that’s just because you’re you, and not because of some bi—”

“Where are we going?” Geralt asked, interrupting before Jaskier could go on yet another rant.

“Every club.” Jaskier gestured at the brightly lit street ahead of them.

“Every club?” Geralt repeated slowly, not liking the sound of it.

“Every single one. You’re going home drunk, with someone, or hopefully a combo of the two.” Jaskier pumped his fist, looking determined for once in his life. Why that energy never transferred to his actual work, Geralt never knew.

“I’m going home tired,” he grumbled, but followed anyway.

As usual, Jaskier knew every party in town. He had always been the more social one between them, with all the good and bad it came with. For every three people he flirted with, a fourth and fifth were ready to pummel him to death. Deservedly so, Geralt was certain, but if they wanted to kill Jaskier, they’d have to do it out of his sight at least. He needed plausible deniability for when Ciri asked.

And as expected, Geralt felt very tired by the time they’d hit the fifth one. The parties were as different as can be, from well-dressed elites sipping cocktails to raves better suited for university students, but either way, mostly filled with boring, annoying people that he would rather never see again. Every time Jaskier sensed his patience had hit its limit, he’d drag Geralt off to the next party.

“How are there so many parties?” Geralt muttered as they entered some ostentatious hotel. The décor was meant to replicate grandeur but felt over-the-top and tacky to him.

“Christmas!” Jaskier explained, still as cheerful as though it were their first party, and not the _n_ th one. “Every company’s cramming them in this week which is perfect for gate crashers like us.”

Geralt raised a brow. “Don’t they have security or id?”

Jaskier shrugged as he led him into the ballroom. “Probably. Now, come on. We’ve been at it all night, and you’re barely buzzed.”

“You keep dragging us out before I can drink,” Geralt pointed out.

“No worries here—open bar.” Jaskier grinned, all teeth. “Perfect place to drown your sorrows.”

“I don’t have any,” he retorted immediately.

Jaskier shrugged it off. “Sure, sure. You go drink in joy then, and I’m going to take a look at who’s here. See you in ten!”

Without waiting for a response, he firmly pushed Geralt toward the back and then disappeared. Geralt clicked his teeth but made his way forward. As usual, people stopped and stared at him, though they tried to do it as politely as possible. With his heavy build and long white hair, he knew he was an unusual sight for many.

“Oh? Look who it is.”

But not for all. He froze at the familiar sultry voice. Seated at the bar, sipping whisky, was Yennefer. As usual, she looked stunning, her black cocktail dress clinging to her like a second skin. The light flush on her neck and cheeks gave away how drunk she was, though her eyes were as intelligent as ever.

“Yennefer,” he muttered, reluctantly approaching her. It was only now, only here, that he could privately admit what Jaskier and Ciri had said:

He _was_ hung up on her.

He had always been too slow, too simple for the city, and so when he’d gotten caught up in the whirlwind that was Yennefer, he hadn’t realized that what was true for him hadn’t been true for her. That his feelings were only one-sided.

That to her it was just a game.

Even this meeting was just another game.

Yennefer patted the seat next to her. “You should sit.”

It was like nothing had happened. Steeling himself, he shook his head and stood. “I’ll have a Moscow Mule.”

The bartender nodded, already pulling out a glass.

Yennefer wrinkled her nose. “Vodka. Again. You never change, do you?”

“I try not to,” he muttered, unable to stop himself. She’d always been good at drawing him into a conversation.

“Still at the…” Yennefer paused, her nose scrunching as she tried to think of the word. “ _handy-man_ things?”

She was definitely drunk. He tried not to care. “Yes.”

“One-word answers—I told you to fix that.” Yennefer took another sip of her drink. Lifting the glass, she admired the light filtering through the dark brown liquid. “You haven’t learned to talk—business isn’t going to expand that way, you know.”

“It doesn’t need to.” Geralt shrugged as he got his glass. The ice clinked as he drank. “I’m good.”

Yennefer snorted. “You mean barely making it.”

“Everyone’s barely making it, compared to you,” he growled. She always had a way of getting under his skin. “There are other things.”

“And what do you know of those ‘other’ things?” Yennefer laughed, her red lips curving into a contemptuous smirk. “You’ve hidden in your shell for years.”

She wasn’t wrong. He’d lived that way for years. Geralt stared at his reflection in his drink. “Not anymore.”

She raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “So you _have_ changed.”

“Yeah. And you haven’t.” He was already tired of the conversation. Picking up his glass, he turned to go when a delicate hand wrapped around his tie. He stared at her perfectly manicured nails before she yanked hard, bringing his lips tantalizingly close to hers. “Yennefer,” he breathed, unable to pull back.

“Why are you still so goddamn attractive?” Yennefer mused. This close, he could smell the alcohol on her breath, and below it the faint scent of her flowery perfume.

“I…”

“It’s unfair,” she murmured, so close now her lips brushed his as she spoke. Suddenly, she slumped on his chest and Geralt froze.

“Huh?” Panicked, he grabbed her shoulders, lifting her head. Her slow breathing, slightly parted lips, and closed eyes explained everything: she was fast asleep.

“Had a feeling,” sighed the bartender. “She’d drank too much.”

Geralt looked at him, panicked. “Where should I put her?”

He shrugged. “You could ask for a room here, if there’s any still available. Either way, when the party’s over, she has to go.”

Her shoulders were still too small and fragile, and he held her carefully as he quickly scanned the room. If anyone else here knew or cared about her, they didn’t act like it. Almost no one looked at him, too focused on their conversations.

“Still no friends,” he muttered. “And _I’m_ the one avoiding people?”

-x-

Yennefer woke to a pounding head and a parched mouth. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten so hammered last night; it was a company party, after all. She had to keep some decorum.

Yennefer frowned. _Company party. Drinking_.

Just when had she gotten home? How? Actually, now that she thought about it, her bed felt oddly hard and the smell…

Husky, a bit wild, and—

She knew that smell.

Yennefer opened her eyes, staring at the vaguely familiar ceiling. It had been years since she’d slept here and suddenly last night came rushing to her. Geralt had been at the bar. _Geralt_ of all people. Quickly, she patted herself, checking that her clothes were still on. Even though she’d made the stupid mistake of going home with him, she certainly hadn’t made the stupider mistake of sleeping with him.

There was enough complication in her life without adding him back to the mix. Sitting up, she rubbed her head. As usual, the big lug had deposited her on his bed, no doubt sleeping on the couch or something instead.

“You’re awake!” Yennefer snapped her head to the door, where a young blonde girl eyed her curiously. The girl bounced on her feet slightly. “You’re Yennefer, right?”

She raised a brow. This was _Geralt’s_ place, right? “And you’re?”

“Ciri.” The girl grinned before spinning around. “Geralt! She’s awake!”

Yennefer groaned and lay back down. Either he was married, widowed, or adopting rugrats all over the place. Either way, she wasn’t ready for any of this. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she could pretend nothing happened.

Yeah. That’s what she’d do.

“Yennefer?”

She grumpily opened her eyes and saw him at the door.

Well, at least she’d gotten one thing right yesterday. Damn, he’d aged well.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to add on to this once I've gotten my plate a little more clear...fingers crossed that doesn't take too long.


End file.
